The Conundrum
The artist groped through the paint trying to see
With her fingertips the things she could not say
The more she could see
The less she could say so
She spoke in whispers
Even to her secret self
Asking where does the paint
Want to go?
The more she could say
The less she could see so
She stopped the brush
To catch her breath often
The paint drifted about the canvas
Like waves on a lazy boat
Lapping here
Landing there
Landing nowhere
In particular
The artist played
The game she learned long ago, pretending
Her brush was deaf
Her fingers mute
And the game of smiling
When it was not called for
She stopped the brush
To catch her breath, often
The more she could say
The less she could see so
Asking where does the paint
Want to be,
She spoke in whispers
Blaming paint
Even to her secret self.
c. 2007/2014 Triada Samaras
